Scars
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: On his honeymoon, John starts receiving anonymous texts with increasingly disturbing images. He discovers how much he doesn't know about Sherlock's time away. Set post-TSoT, pre-HLV. Spoilers for TSoT, speculation for HLV. Warning: contains references to past rape and torture.
1. Image attached

**Title:** Scars  
**Author:** Mildredandbobbin  
**Pairing: **John & Sherlock  
**Rating:** Mature  
**Status:** Complete  
**Contents/Warnings: **Hurt/comfort, angst, rape aftermath, past torture, Sherlock series 3 spoilers, tw: rape  
**Author's notes: **Written and posted on A03 just before His Last Vow aired.  
**Summary:** On his honeymoon, John starts receiving anonymous texts with increasingly disturbing images. He discovers how much he doesn't know about Sherlock's time away.

Set post-TSoT, pre-HLV. Spoilers for TSoT, speculation for HLV.

* * *

Chapter 1: Image Attached

The first picture arrived while John was on his honeymoon. Unknown number on his phone, image attached. At first he thought it was from Sherlock, a photo from a crime scene, must have commandeered someone's phone. Annoyed at the involuntary thrill of excitement that flared in his gut, John tapped out a terse response.

_Sherlock, I'm on my honeymoon._

There was no reply.

Ten minutes later John clicked open the image again. Victim, beaten, gouging wounds – some metal implement. From the blood and sweat – the poor bastard may well have still been alive. Something about it turned John's stomach.

_Is he still alive? Did you call an ambulance._

There was no response so John assumed Sherlock had resolved whatever it was he'd needed. Still, it nagged at him, on and off, as he lazed by the pool. He resolved to ask Sherlock about it when he got back.

The second picture arrived in the small hours of the morning. John was woken by the text message. Another unknown number. Another – no the same victim? This time part of the victim's head was in the shot, dark unkempt hair. He could see the sheen of sweat on the victim's shoulders, the strain of his muscles. This was taken while he was still alive.

_What's this about, Sherlock? _

There was no response and, irritated, John turned off the phone and tried to go back to sleep. At breakfast the next morning he texted Sherlock.

_Everything fine?_

The reply came immediately.

_Of course. I'm busy. Two interesting cases in the last four days. Enjoy your sex. Love to Mary. Kiss kiss, all that. _

It made John snort. At least Sherlock had stopped signing his text messages. Relieved, he forgot about the texts amidst scuba-diving and lazy sex.

Two days later he received the next picture. The top half of a man, on his knees, torso bare, head wrenched back by a fist tangled in that same straggly hair. John could see the man's throat, bared, straining. His face was shadowed but John could see the tension in every straining sinew, the blood and sweat, the pallor and green, yellow, purple on his skin, eyes rolled back in his head, cheek bloody.

John felt dread creep along his spine. He texted Sherlock's usual number this time.

_Are you sending me crime scene photos from another number?_

Sherlock's answer was almost immediate.

_No. _

His mobile chimed again before he could respond: another number, another attachment. His hand clenched around the phone, revulsion surging through him. The victim was on his knees and bent forward unnaturally, arms cuffed behind his back, a booted foot pining his upper body down. He was naked, dirty trousers about his knees, his back bloody and bruised, and there, kneeling behind him was another soldier, fingers digging into the man's hips, body canted forward obscenely— Horrified, John shut off the screen. He blinked, dazed, and looked around: Mary was sleeping on a deck chair beside him, palm trees waved in perfect blue sky, other holiday makers laughed and splashed and sunned themselves. And somewhere, some poor bastard was getting tortured and raped.

John swallowed and opened his phone again, he clicked out of the image and forwarded the text to Sherlock's number.

_I just got this. Do something. _

It was a full minute before Sherlock responded.

_It's old. Ignore it. _

John jumped to his feet, pacing. His hands weren't shaking anymore and anger boiled inside him. He hit call but Sherlock didn't answer. His phone pinged with a new message.

_I'll look into it. Don't let it spoil your holiday. _

Fuck. Fuck. John blew out a frustrated breath. Easier said then done. Bloody hell, why couldn't Sherlock just answer the bloody phone? He tapped out another message.

_Fuck my holiday. I got these too. Thought you were sending them._

He forwarded Sherlock all the other photos.

John gnawed on the inside his cheek and stared at the too-blue sky. The phone chimed again, but it wasn't Sherlock.

_Did you enjoy the holiday snaps, Doctor Watson? _

Stomach clenching, John texted back. _Who is this?_

_An interested party._

Another text came immediately after.

_Someone's been keeping secrets from you._

John swallowed. He hit call but the number was disconnected.

Another message arrived straight after, different number.

_I'll contact you, Doctor Watson. In the meantime, this is just a little demonstration of just how much I know._

There was another text. Image loading…with a pounding heart John looked at the picture.

That same long, dark, bedraggled hair, the same sweat and blood and bruising, but now the victim was looking straight at the camera; distinctive eyes staring directly into the lens, exhausted, in pain, defiant.

John clutched his hand to his mouth, bile burning his throat.

Sherlock.

Oh God. Sherlock.

He paced, cursing long and low, and took a deep breath.

Hand steady, so steady, he forwarded the image to Sherlock and typed another message.

_Why didn't you tell me?_

Sherlock didn't answer.


	2. Just transport

**Chapter 2: Just transport**

John's first impulse was to cut the honeymoon short but to do what? Obviously the assault had happened while Sherlock was away. Obviously, physically he was healed, and obviously, he hadn't wanted John to know. God. John wanted to crawl out of his skin.

Numbly he stared at his phone. Someone out there had ill intentions towards either him or Sherlock and they needed to be stopped. He forwarded all the remaining texts he'd received to Sherlock, even as he cringed with the stomach dropping knowledge that he'd already inadvertently sent Sherlock the grim evidence of his own assault.

Sherlock didn't reply.

He tried to reconcile the man he knew with the victim in the photographs. He re-ran the memories of Sherlock since his return, all his unusual, slightly erratic behaviour suddenly making more sense– Sherlock's fear of John getting married, of leaving him— The new emotions, the tears on the train— The tight, twisted look before Sherlock had disappeared from the wedding – With terrible, gut wrenching guilt he remembered the way he'd greeted Sherlock on his return, not with welcome and love but with more violence.

John had not wanted to know what Sherlock had done while he was away. He'd imagined Sherlock capering about Europe and beyond, having wild, fantastic adventures without him. He'd never imagined…bloody hell…_he hadn't asked_.

The image of the two men holding Sherlock down, violating him, circled through his mind. He couldn't let it go, couldn't erase it from his memory. He thought of Sherlock in pain, in agony, suffering alone. Fuck, and Sherlock had probably never had sex before in his life, and wasn't that the kicker?

He felt weak and filled with impotent rage. He hadn't been there, Sherlock hadn't let him be there. He hadn't been able to protect Sherlock—

He stared at his phone, composing text after text. Deleting text after text.

_I'm sorry, _he typed, ineffectually, in the end.

Sherlock didn't reply.

Mary knew something was wrong, _of course_ she knew; bloody obvious the way John was distracted, closed off, filled with useless fury, self-recrimination and worry. He confided in her and she listened and soothed and part of him felt even worse, that he had this comfort and Sherlock had none.

"Do you want to go back?" she asked as he buried his face in her lap and let her stroke his hair.

"No, no, it – I mean, he probably doesn't want to talk about it—"

"We'll go back."

* * *

Sherlock, dressed impeccably in his suit, didn't turn when John stepped into the living room of 221B Baker Street.

"Ah, John," he said, flipping through some papers on his desk with studied casualness, his voice slightly off. "I've traced the phone numbers of our unidentified correspondent – it appears they're linked with the same group—"

"Sherlock," John interrupted.

Sherlock froze, head bowed. He flicked at the corner of a notebook, the only sign of agitation.

"Are you all right? Physically, I mean."

"Yes of course. It was nearly a year ago."

Silence stretched between them. God, John knew how Sherlock felt about therapists, he probably hadn't even talked to anyone about what had happened. He should have seen it, all the signs of PTSD were there –

"I'm sorry," John began, bracing himself.

"Can we not?" snapped Sherlock, his fingers tightening around the notebook. "I don't want, I _can't_ bear your pity."

John swallowed. "I didn't–" He sucked in a breath. "I don't think any less of you, you know that, right?" Sherlock tilted his chin, looking off to the left, the notepad abandoned, his fingers now clenched into a fist, knuckles pressed to the table. He stood so painfully still, was sprung so taut, that John was sure he was listening and he forged ahead. "There's nothing to be ashamed of. It wasn't your fault, you've got to know that."

"Spare me, John," replied Sherlock, his voice strangely hollow. "I've already suffered through enough motherhood statements from M16's counsellors." He tossed one bleak, wry smile over his shoulder. "Queen and kingdom, lie back and think of England, pip pip!"

John's smile was watery. He looked at the straight line of Sherlock's back, the same back he'd seen gouged and bleeding, bowed and bruised. Fury washed through him anew.

"Are they dead? The ones who did it?" The words came out harsh and sharp. It wasn't what he'd meant to say.

Sherlock gave a startled laugh. "Quite probably," he replied. "Mycroft set off an incendiary bomb inside the base just after we left."

"Mycroft got you out?" John's stomach twisted with guilt and…jealousy. It should have been him. Sherlock shouldn't have even been in that situation. If he'd been there. "God, if you'd just—"

He looked across the room, to the web of paper pinned to the wall above the sofa, tried to get control of his temper. He'd planned out what he wanted to say, and yelling at Sherlock for not taking him with him, was not part of his speech.

"Look. I understand if you don't want to talk about it. But, if you want to, I'm listening." He bit his lip, the words sticking on his tongue. "When you came back I was angry, and I assumed – I didn't ask, and you're my best friend and I should have asked."

"What do you want to know?" Sherlock's voice was a razor. "Did they water-board me before or after the gang rape?"

John shut his eyes. "Jesus…"

"Oh don't worry, they soon gave up on that when I didn't respond the way they wanted me to. Moved on, scraping my back open with the end of a screwdriver was so much more effective. Sleep deprivation, beatings—"

John bowed his head. "How long did they hold you?"

"Two and a half months. I escaped once. When I was recaptured, Mycroft intervened."

John hissed out a breath and looked up at the tall figure in front of him. "And I wondered why you didn't call," he murmured.

Sherlock huffed. "Eastern European dungeons have terrible mobile reception."

John lifted his hand to his mouth as a choked sound escaped.

Sherlock turned then, expression closed. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. His gaze skittered towards John, then away again.

John's chest hurt. "Jesus...Sherlock, can I hug you?"

Sherlock's eyes flashed and he drew himself up. "I'm not fragile, John."

John's throat was tight. "No," he said thickly, shaking his head. "No, you're not. You're brilliant."

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise, his mouth twisted and then crumpled, and John couldn't stand it any longer. He pulled Sherlock to him.

"Fuck," he growled, burying his face into Sherlock's unyielding shoulder. "Fuck. You should have taken me with you. You should have let me keep you safe." He felt Sherlock in his arms, alive, safe, whole. Without thinking he reached for Sherlock's wrist, for his pulse.

With a sharp exhalation, Sherlock clamped one hand on the nape of John's neck, wrenching him closer.

"And risk that happening to you instead?" he hissed, low and vicious against John's ear. "Don't you _see? _That was _not _an acceptable outcome. I had to focus and function effectively. I couldn't do that if you were in danger. I needed to know you were safe, and if that meant keeping you in ignorance, letting you believe I was dead, _then so be it_."

He released John, thrusting him away.

John stared at him. "You might have died," he bit out. "You might have fucking died and I'd have never known. You'd never have come back to me, and I'd never have even fucking known what a fucking twat you were, jumping off Barts to save us, you magnificent fucking bastard." He sucked in a breath, so furious, because Sherlock, brilliant, vibrant, amazing Sherlock Fucking Holmes, the fucking _cock_, had put _him,_ broken, ordinary John Watson, had put _his_ life and health and happiness above his own.

Sherlock swallowed. "I didn't. I didn't die," he breathed.

John sucked in a ragged breath. He opened his arms. "Please," he said helplessly. "Come here."

Sherlock hesitated only for a moment and then he stepped into John's arms, buried his face in John's neck and let John hold him close. John could feel his breath against his skin, could feel his body tremor against his, and finally, he felt Sherlock relax against him. He tentatively pressed his palms to Sherlock's shoulder blades and when he didn't flinch or object, John carefully smoothed his hands over Sherlock's back, over the places he'd seen bloody and wounded, bent and abused. He soothed the places where the scars would be, wanting to rub them away. He felt Sherlock shudder against him and he held him tighter.

"Shh," he whispered. "I've got you, you idiot. You're safe. Let me keep you safe."

He heard Sherlock sigh and felt his arms tighten in return. He felt the brush of Sherlock's fingertips against the nape of his neck.

"You did," breathed Sherlock. "Through it all, you were there, always there, in my head, telling me to hold on, to come back, to give you one more miracle."

John turned his face into Sherlock's neck and exhaled a shaky breath.

They stayed there like that for a long moment, then John gave him one last squeeze and slowly drew back. He cleared his throat and met Sherlock's eyes ruefully.

"If there's, um, anything I can do – anything – I'll do it," he said and suddenly he knew he meant that - _anything._ Whatever Sherlock needed.

Sherlock studied him, his gaze flickering over John's face for a long moment. His lips parted briefly as if he were about to say something, but then his mouth tightened and he looked away. "I know," he said instead.

John felt overwhelmed and he glanced away, back towards the wall with its collage of criminal data. He looked back at Sherlock.

"So, this toss rag who's taken an interest in us. Any theories?"

Sherlock's face cleared. "Seven, maybe eight," he said and in two strides had bounded across the room to examine the string of paper pinned to the wall.

* * *

AN: The sequel Anything is up now.


End file.
